The Language of Silences
by lulucheme
Summary: Modern day, human AU. Nonromantic. Gilbert is an aspiring flutist and established trouble maker. Ludwig is a second-year medical student and the only pride of their distant father. One winter, Gilbert becomes severely ill and loses his hearing as a result. As he and his brother deal with his illness and recovery, they are forced to face the losses that tore their family apart.
1. Prologue

It is 8:33 pm on a Saturday evening in early January. The sun has already set and the snow of earlier hours clings to the edges of Chicago. The snow of the current hour swirls, effervescent and meandering, outside the third story of a clean, well-lit apartment off of Racine and Dickens. A man of 26 stands by the bay window of the two-bedroom apartment he shares with his younger brother, Ludwig. Ludwig sits on their thrifted, blue corduroy couch with the TV on mute. He is not watching the TV. He is watching the profile of his older brother, poised with his powder silver flute and his matte music stand. He is inquiring at the quality of his brother's paleness, at the whiteness of his hair, wondering if Gil could melt like the snow behind him. He is listening to a momentary pause in his brother's improvisation of an etude.

Ludwig thinks that Gil deserves better than his life here, that Gil should have auditioned for the chair in the Los Angeles Philharmonic, the Baltimore Philharmonic. He doesn't say anything because he knows why Gil is still here.

Gil starts to play again, but he sounds breathy. He coughs. The tinge of soreness in his throat and the ache in his ear and temples are becoming a nuisance. He grabs his cleaning rod and black silk cloth from the case and starts to dry the interior of his flute.

"You're done already?" Ludwig asks, surprised. Despite all of Gil's impulsions, there were certain patterns in his brother's behavior he found predictable. One of them being the uncharacteristically binding focus that overcame Gil whenever he started to play. It was not uncommon to find his brother asleep on the couch the next morning with his flute in his hands or sheet music scattered around the piano.

"Yeah. What are you watching?"

"I think it's a CSI rerun." Ludwig shrugs, then returns his attention to his brother. "Are you okay? You sound tired."

"Yeah. I'm fine."

Ludwig watches Gil as he puts the flute back into the case. His paleness seems to border on pallor and Ludwig is certain he's lying. "You barely ate dinner. Are you sick?"

Gil zips the case shut and sits down next to Ludwig. Before Ludwig can react, Gil has his arm around Ludwig in a position that feels more like a headlock than a friendly gesture. "Calm down little guy. You're not a doctor yet."

The truth is that Ludwig has at least three inches on Gil and Gil feels awful. He's felt awful since this afternoon, but he's not about to acknowledge either fact to his baby brother.

"Why do you feel so hot?" Ludwig pushes himself away from Gil's chest as it becomes clear that the gesture is, in fact, a headlock.

"You jealous?"

"Ludwig rolls his eyes at Gil's smirk and unmutes the TV. "Just don't get me sick. Classes start next week."

It's just another cold, Ludwig thinks.  
I'll be fine by tomorrow, Gil thinks.  
It's not a big deal, they both think.

And yet, Ludwig can't shake this feeling of dread.


	2. Fever

**Thanks for the subscriptions and t** **hanks for the reviews NordicsAwesome and SonoSvegliato! ^^**

 **Just some notes:**

 **\- Their mother is more or less Frederick the Great in this AU. I really wanted him to hold similar significance in Gilbert's life, and this was the best way I could fit it into the story.**

 **\- 102.4 F is 39.1 C**

 **\- I decided to write a bit of Gerita and Spamano in because it makes me happy. The relationships are not meant to play a huge role, as my romance writing abilities are poor, but I thought it would be fun to include.**

 **Thanks for reading! Comments/reviews are much appreciated. I have most of the story planned out already, but I am always open to suggestions. ^^**

* * *

It is 10:41 pm. Ludwig looks away from his TV and the laptop which now sits on his lap and towards his brother. Gil is asleep at the other end of the couch. A brown, fleece blanket drapes loosely over his slim frame. His body is tucked around his knees. His head is hidden by thin, bunched fabric and his outline swells with each inhale, shrinks with each exhale. He watches his brother pull the blanket taut over body and shiver. He wonders if his brother will shrink away.

"Hey Luddy," Gil says, startling Ludwig. He sits up and lets the blanket fall below his chin. "Can you grab me some ibuprofen?"

"Yeah, sure." Ludwig places his laptop on the coffee table and stands up, but stops and says, "How many did you have this afternoon?"

"I think four." Gil brings his knees closer to his body. "Or five? I don't know. Just bring me some. Please?"

Ludwig inquires at his brother's pale, glazed irises and the pink flush across his brother's face. It was unusual for his brother's tone to be so soft, or for him to fall asleep at such an early hour. The Gil he was used to had more energy than the entirety of Chicago, even when he was sick. It was a wonder how any disease managed to survive for long in Gil's body, and an even greater wonder how he managed to get sick so often. He walks closer to Gil and reaches for his brother's forehead but is stopped by a weak, yet still defiant grip around his wrist.

"Stop playing doctor and grab me some meds."

The heat from Gil's hands feels as though it might burn. Ludwig pulls his hand away and says, "You really shouldn't have more than four in a day. I'll get a thermometer instead."

"How is a thermometer supposed to make my headache go away?" Gil emphasizes the word thermometer with an unnecessary amount of disgust.

"It won't, but it's obvious you have a fever."

"I'm fine. Knowing my temperature won't solve anything."

Ludwig lets out a sigh. He rubs the bridge of his nose, unsure what kind of response expected from his brother. He glances at his brother again before he walks away and decides that some water is in order as well. When he returns with the thermometer in one hand and a glass of water in the other, he sees Gil facing forward with his feet on the ground and his hands gripping the edge of the seat. He is leaning forward and his eyes are shut. He is waiting for the sudden wave of nausea to subside. Ludwig sets the water and thermometer down on the coffee table and sits down next to Gil. He rubs his brother's back. When Gil opens his eyes, Ludwig picks up the glass and says, "Here, drink this."

Gil glares at his brother but grabs the glass. He takes slow, small sips. The water is warm and soothes his throat, but does little to settle his stomach. He sets the glass down. The motion causes his stomach to churn again. He looks up and the lights and sounds on the TV are too harsh. "Turn it off." He grips the couch again as his stomach rises. His voice is a weak trickle of gravel.

Ludwig knits his brows in concern. "Turn what off?"

"The TV." Gil tries to tighten his grip on the seat cushion, but instead he feels his strength leaving his arms. "Turn off the TV."

Ludwig grabs the remote. The screen and sound go blank. Gil finds a moment of relief. He loosens his grip on the couch and rests his head in his hands. He feels exhausted. Ludwig is rubbing his back again and, while he refuses to admit it, he does not want his baby brother to stop.

"Are you okay?"

"Yes. I'm fine," Gil says and before Ludwig can formulate a reply, Gil tries to stand up and nearly falls forward into the coffee table. As Ludwig catches him, Gil feels another wave of nausea rise into urgency. "Shit." He's trying to hold his own ground, but his strength has turned to wisps. "Get me to the bathroom."

Ludwig's eyes widen and he props his brother's arm up on his shoulder. They stumble over to the bathroom door. Before Ludwig can switch the bathroom light on, Gil is on his knees, in front of the toilet and vomiting. His throat burns but his body still feels cold. The only comfort comes from his baby brother's hand rubbing against his back and the few moments his body allows him to catch his breath.

Ludwig watches quietly. The image of their mother, home after her first round of chemotherapy, bent over the toilet, flashes through his mind. He shakes the memory away and looks over at Gil. He is dry heaving. His sweat shimmers like dew around his temples. He wipes his mouth with the back of his hand and stands up, his legs are wavering. Ludwig moves to help him but is met with an angry gaze that keeps him at bay. Gil steadies himself with one hand against the cold, hard porcelain and uses his free hand to flush.

"Tastes better the second time around," Gil says. He pushes the seat down so he can't see the water swirl. He looks up at Ludwig again with a smile.

When Ludwig meets his brother's eyes, he sees their mother smiling, tufts of hair missing and an electric razor in her hand. She says it'll look better this way. It'll be fun. Oh, do you want a haircut too? Oh no, you want to shave it all off? You want to be like Mommy?

Gil furrows his brows as he looks at his baby brother. He's trying to process Luddy's face. Everything so fuzzy. It's moving slowly. His legs feel so sore. So tired. He wavers for a moment, then steadies himself again. Why does his ear still ache? Why does his head still hurt? It hurts more. Everything hurts more. He's dizzy. He's falling forward again until Ludwig catches him. Again.

"Maybe we should take you to the hospital," Ludwig says.

"No. I'll just sleep it off."

Ludwig looks down at Gil, who is still clinging to his arm for support and breathing rapidly. "At least let me take your temperature."

"Fine." Gil pushes himself upright and steadies himself against Ludwig. He wonders, for a moment, if he could make it back to his room alone, but his legs feel unsteady. "Help me back."

Ludwig lowers himself under his brother's left arm and walks Gil back to his room. He leaves to retrieve the thermometer and water from the living room. When he returns, Gil is laying in his bed, on his side, facing away from the door. His blanket is pulled tightly over his body and he is shivering again. Ludwig walks over to the other side of the bed. As he sets the glass down on Gil's nightstand, he hears the clean click of rosary beads against glass. Ludwig looks down at the wooden cross, he notices the white digital lettering on his brother's alarm clock, 12:17 pm. Ludwig runs his hand through his blond hair. A few gelled strands fall out of place. He is tired. He sighs and looks up at the shivering, bundled mass in front of him.

"Hey, Gil." Ludwig puts a free hand on Gil's shoulder. "You up?"

"Yeah." Gil pulls the blanket lower to reveal his face. Why is it so cold?

Ludwig hands Gil the thermometer. He watches his brother's eyes. Gil's gaze seems unfocused. His motions seem slow, clumsy, almost childlike. Beads of sweat are gathering near his eyes brows. They are white. His eyelashes are frost. They are white too. The sweat melts into his sheets. The sheets are not white. They are stark. Black. Gil had a fondness for the color. Ludwig glances at the flag hanging above the headboard. It is stark too. Black and white. A Prussian flag. Their mother was so proud of their heritage. Opa gave me my flute, she would say. He was Prussian. Oma was from Berlin. She was German. What's Prussia? Oh, no it's not on the map anymore honey.

The bird peers down at them. It is daunting. It is a ghost. Ludwig wonders how his brother can sleep when the dead hangs over him.

Beep. Beep. Beep.

Gil looks down at the thermometer and squints at the small, digital screen. Ludwig snaps out of his daze and looks back to his brother.

"102.4," Gil says as he squints at the panel. His voice is slow and rough. He sets the thermometer back onto the nightstand and pulls the sheets closer. The warmth still leaves his bones. He closes his eyes.

Ludwig sits down in a large, yellow bird beanbag chair. It is the only source of color in an otherwise colorless room. It seems out of place, but then again, the whole room seems out of place for a guy like Gil. It was so neat, so serious. The room itself was stark. White walls. White bookshelf. Black journals, meticulously labeled. Not diary's, Gil would insist. Journals. Black photo albums, meticulously labeled. One lay open on his desk. Ludwig takes the album back to the bean bag. He looks at the photos. Spring break. Gil drunk with his two closest friends, Francis and Antonio. Antonio passed out on the beach with a tape smiley face on his toned stomach.

* * *

It left tan lines for months, Antonio later told him when they saw each other at Roscoe's for the first time. It was two years ago, a little after New Year's.

"Why does that giant ape keep looking over here?" Antonio's boyfriend, Lovnio asked.

"I don't think he looks like an ape. He's cute. He looks lost," Feliciano said. "Let's go talk to him." He was Lovnio's younger brother, although they looked identical.

"Oh, that's Ludwig. Gil's brother," Antonio said when he looked over. "What is he doing here?" He was surprised to see Ludwig at a gay bar. Gil never mentioned anything to him. Did he know?

"That white haired maniac's brother?" Lovnio said. "Feli don't talk to him." He looked over and Feli was gone. He was already by Ludwig, blabbing with his usual incessancy.

* * *

Ludwig wakes up to groaning. A dim sunlight slants through the window. Dust swirls, meandering in the sunlight. 5:15 am. Gil groans again. Ludwig stands up and rubs his neck. Perhaps a giant yellow Peep was not the best place to fall asleep, but then again, he didn't remember falling asleep. He walks up to his brother. Gil's breathing is labored and his hair is matted in sweat. He lays strangely, with his neck outstretch. Ludwig feels the drowsiness leave him. It is replaced by a sharp sense of realization.

"Gil." Ludwig puts a hand on his brother's shoulder and shakes him gently. "Wake up. We have to go to the hospital." His shirt is damp with sweat.

Gil's eyelashes flutter. His eyes open. He glances upwards at the form above his bed. His eyes are unfocused. "Mom. I don't want to go to school." His shuts his eyes again.

He shakes his brother again. "It's me, Luddy."

Gil tries to shift his head to get a better view of the strange voice. He grimaces when a sharp pain shoots up his neck.

"Mom. Help me. It hurts."

"What hurts?"

"My neck."

Ludwig stares at his brother. Not thinking. Just staring. What do I do? You know what to do. Why are you just standing there? Do something. Do something. Call the hospital. Call an ambulance. He's going to die. He's going to die. You're overreacting.

"Mom." Gil's eyes flutter. He is trying to keep them open.

Ludwig squats down to meet Gil's eyes. "I'm not Mom."

Gil surveys Ludwig's face. "Who are you? What did you do to Mom?"

Ludwig swallows. "I'm your brother. Ludwig." He pauses and wonders if he should mention Mom.

"Luddy." Gil smiles. His eyes shut, then open again. He squints at the stranger. "You're not Luddy."

Ludwig stands up and pulls his phone out from his pocket. His hands are shaking. He can't lose his brother too. Just dial the number. It's easy. Nine. One. One. Nine. One. One. State your emergency. My brother is ill. I think he has meningitis. Please send an ambulance.


	3. The grim reaper wears blue

**Hey! I've been busy over the holidays but here's the next chapter ^^**

 **SonoSvegliato - Ahh! Hello again! ^^ So glad to see you again! Hope your holidays went well :) Thank you so much for your kind words!**

 **Zeivira - Holy crap, Argentina?! That's awesome! - And yeah he's like a writer's lovable punching bag T.T poor bb.**

* * *

The floors are linoleum. Speckled. Polished to a shine. The heart monitor beeps. It is steady. Steady. Steady like the drip of the IV. 10.8 mg dexamethasone. 1.1 g vancomycin. 2 g ceftriazone. Gil is a picture in a textbook. That's what Ludwig tells himself. Figure 3b. 26-year-old male, Caucasian, infected with _S pneumoniae_. Bacterial meningitis.

His chances of survival are 75 percent. That's pretty high.

What about the other 25 percent?

The wall of machines beeps their rhythm. Gil's chest rises and falls. Steady. He is lost in the white sheets. In the wires and tubes. His is a picture in a textbook. He is Mom in the ICU. His heart beat is increasing. She's seizing. He's seizing. They're administering medication. He's a picture in a textbook. The machine is a wall. Everything is okay. It's okay. Okay?

Dr. Braginski asks him to leave. Ludwig stands outside the room. He hears the nurses and doctors shouting and a strange feeling wells up in the back of his throat. This is routine. 50 mg of phenobarbital. Was it 50 mg? Was it phenobarbital? He heads towards the elevator. He waits. He watches the little black box count down the floors. It's stuck at 4, then 3, then 2. The elevator stops and steel doors open to reveal his father, still in scrubs, a half-undone surgical mask hanging from his neck.

"Ludwig?" His father looks surprised.

"Are you here to see Gil?"

"What? No, I'm headed back to my office."

"Did you get my message?"

"No, I was in surgery all morning. Routine coronary bypass. What did Gilbert do?"

Ludwig furrows his brows. He can see the wrinkles around his father's green eyes.

"Dad," Ludwig says. He catches the elevator doors as they start to shut.

"What?"

"Gilbert has meningitis. He's in the ICU. I had to leave because he started seizing."

"Oh."

His father's eyes are blank. Ludwig squints harder as he tries to read his father's expression.

"I heard classes start next week. You should head home, get some lunch. Rest up," his father says, as he exits the elevator. "You look terrible."

Ludwig grabs his father's arm. "Where are you going?"

"To my office."

"Your office is on the first floor."

"Go home."

Ludwig watches his father's back. The feeling of hardness in throat wavers and his eyes are hot with tears and he tells himself to take the stairs. Don't cry. Be a man. Men don't cry. Dr. Folkert Beilschmidt, world-class heart surgeon, did not cry – or rather – he only cried when he thought others could not see. Ludwig, however, is not entirely aware of this latter fact. Instead, Ludwig believes his father is a man with steady hands and a steadier mind. Ludwig believes that his father is impenetrable. Ludwig believes that it must be freeing to be like father.

Dr. Folkert Beilschmidt is headed towards the ICU at Abbot and he just saw his son, somewhere between a nudge and a flick from tears in a place that did not need more tears. What is the likelihood that things will go wrong? 41 percent after the seizures? It's Gilbert. Round it up to 50 percent. But 50 percent is good. He's seen worse odds. Gilbert was always at odds with something. Usually someone. That someone was usually him.

"Dr. Beilschmidt." A tall man in his late twenties with pale hair that looked more gray than blonde, and deep blue eyes that looked more violet than blue, walks up to him. "I didn't know you had any surgeries scheduled here."

"I don't. I'm here to see my son."

"Oh, you mean Gil?"

Folkert watches the young doctor tap his clipboard and his nerves. "Yes, Dr. Braginski. Gilbert."

"Call me Ivan. We're comrades, right?"

Folkert shudders. There was something unsettling about the way Ivan's tongue lingered on the word comrade. "I don't have time for this. If you know what room he's in, tell me." He pauses and glances at Ivan's clipboard again. "Who is his doctor anyways?"

Ivan smiles and meets Folkert in the eyes for just a moment too long. He sets the clipboard down to his side without looking and says, "Mr. Gilbert Beilschmidt. Room 203. He's resting currently. You may go see him if you wish."

Folkert feels his jaw clench. He's only a resident. Why is he so smug? He glares at Ivan and starts to walk away.

"Folkert," Ivan says. "I will take good care of him. We were classmates after all."

He stops and turns around. "I trust that you will." He pauses, then says, "Also, please call me Dr. Beilschmidt."

"Dr. Beilschmidt, really, I will. I don't hold any grudges. I only ever wanted to be comrades with him." Ivan gives a sincere, yet off-kilter smile and says, "I still wish to befriend him, though I do wish we could have seen each other under better circumstances."

"That's good to hear. Have a nice day, Dr. Braginski."

"Goodbye, Dr. Beilschmidt."

Folkert sighs and pinches the bridge of his nose. The relationship between their families had always been strained and Gilbert's treatment of Ivan in childhood and adolescence had made things worse.

He finds Room 203 and shuts the door behind him as he enters. He stops when he sees the machines he was so used to seeing and the pale, too-still figure that could not have been his son but is clearly his son. He walks up rests his hands on the rough, plastic bed guards. He watches Gil's chest rise and fall, then at the IVs in his arms. He reaches for his son's hand. The coldness is shocking but he holds his hand there. He looks over at Gilbert again. Gilbert's eyes flutter and open to reveal those familiar irises. Light blue with a horizontal spray of a deep brown that boarded on red. Terrifying. Familiar.

* * *

"Beautiful."

Folkert and a young woman with long, white hair sat in a shaded spot by Lake Michigan. It was still early autumn and they were both still young and she still went by Miss Fredrica Wilhem, or simply, Freddie.

"You're just saying that. You really don't think my eyes are scary? My grandmother used to tell me I had the devil's eyes," Freddie said as she brought her face closer to Folkert. He could feel her breath against his skin. The heat from her body brought redness to his cheeks.

"No." Folkert turned his attention from the lake to face her. "Plus, you have heterochromia. It's due to an inconsistent distribution of melanin in your irises. The devil has nothing to do with it."

Freddie raised an eyebrow and laughed. "Charming."

Folkert started to pull at the grass and wondered if the geese could do a better job than he did. "Sorry. I'll try better next time."

"You're ridiculous." Freddie turned to face him and her smile soften. "But don't ever chance." She leaned closer and brushed her lips against his and said, "I love you," then pulled back before they met.

Folkert stared back at her with his mouth slightly open. Freddie reached over and stuck a finger in his mouth. His eyes widened. Freddie fell back into the grass and started to laugh. "You look like an idiot. Oh god." She wiped her eyes. "I didn't know you could look like that." She turned her head towards him and saw the edges of his jaw tense. She rested the back of her hand against his arm. "Lighten up, will ya?"

A man jogged past them on the concrete path between the trees and the water. His feet were loud and rhythmic against the pavement.

Freddie grabbed his wrist. "Hey, come on. I was just messing with you." She turned to her side and slid her fingers between his. "I really meant it. I do love you."

Folkert turned to look at her and a smile split onto his face. He grabbed a fistful of loose grass and dumped it on her head. They wrestled in the grass. When they stopped, they laid down next to each other and looked up at the leaves, just barely colored by the early dregs of autumn.

"You know, I'm technically Freddie the second. The first one was my _onkle_. He let my mom keep my flute, Ol' Fritz. He was a great flautist, my mom said he was one of the best in Germany." Freddie squinted at the light between the leaves. "It's a shame he never saw the end to the war, but you know, my mom always said he put his life and soul into his music." She turned to her side and rested her head on Folket's chest. "I think he left his spirit in that flute. I can feel it."

"You're crazy. Do you really believe those things? The dead are just dead. That is all."

* * *

"Am I dead?" Gilbert squints at the figure besides his bed. The lights are overwhelming. The man is cloaked in blue. He is looming.

"No. You're in the hospital. You're very sick."

"Then why is it so bright?" Gilbert shuts his eyes. His head hurts. Why does it hurt?

"Oh, sorry Gil." Folkert shuts the light off. "Is that better?"

Gil opens his eyes. His heads still hurt. It still feels bright. "How do you know my name?"

Folkert furrows his brows. He is about to respond when Gil smiles and says, "You must be the grim reaper. Why are you all blue?"

A nervousness tightens around Folkert's throat. "No, I'm not. You don't recognize me?" Of course he doesn't. Look at him.

"Oh." Gil shuts his eyes and his smile disappears. "That's unfortunate. Go away."

The lines of Folkert's mouth thin and widen into a grimace. He didn't need to be here. He leaves the room and walks to his office. He shuts the door and rests his face in his hands. He wonders, for a moment, if the devil really lays in those eyes.

* * *

 **History, herstory, ourstory! [aka Interesting things I learned while not-writing]**

 **\- Frederick the Great (Frederick Wilhelm II) was interested in philosophy and language. As a ruler, he wrote flute sonatas and letters to Voltaire. His father was a Calvinist and disapproved of these "frivolous" activities. He sent Frederick to military school to correct this behavior. To say Frederick the Great had a strained father-son relationship is an understatement. This was briefly addressed in the manga, but I thought I'd bring it up again.**

 **\- Bach developed fugues titled "The Musical Offerings" based off of Frederick the Great's composition.**

 **\- After the fall of the Roman Empire, Germanic tribes started to expand westward. Slavic (Russian) tribes expanded to lands abandoned by Germanic tribes. The western Slavic tribes (Wends) had a habit of raiding their neighbors, which resulted in 400 years of constant warfare and tense relations.**

 **\- Catherine the Great was actually German and arranged the murder of her incompetent husband.**


	4. Even Mama lies

It's late January now. Gil lays in his bed and counts the large, white ceiling tiles in his hospital room. They moved him out of the ICU a few days ago. His current room is large and clean. The floors here are hardwood. One wall is occupied by a window and a wood paneled bench. There other walls are occupied by a mixture of white plaster and wood paneling. A white analog clock hangs above the door frame. Gil notes that it is 10:56 am when Dr. Braginski enters the room. Gil is not sure what day it is, why he's in a hospital, or why Ivan is here, but he does not want to ask any of these questions. He does know, however, that it is 10:56 am.

"It's 10:56." Gil says. His mouth slides into a thin smile and his eyelids slide down with his eyes as he changes his gaze from the clock to the doctor. He shifts his head slightly against the white cotton pillowcase. His eyes widen. "Ivan. Why are you here?"

"I'm a resident here. I need to replace your IV bags."

"You sound funny."

Ivan sighs as he walks towards Gil. He pulls a medical cart behind him.

"You're going to poison me," Gil says.

"No." Ivan positions the cart parallel to the bed. This again.

"Is this your revenge?"

Ivan ignores Gil and holds a bag of dexamethasone against the light. Looks sterile, clear.

"What's in the bag?"

Ivan glances down at Gil and says, "Medication, to keep you alive," then double checks the label.

"You hate me," Gil says as he scans Ivan's face, then turns his head to the ceiling and shuts his eyes. He feels his stomach clench and creep into his chest and throat. How did he get here? Why was Ivan here?

* * *

It was noon on February 21st. Gil was 11. He stood by a snowbank of a lake. He had Ivan's coat in his hand. Ivan sat on the ground by Gil's feet, shivering. He had a bruise on his eye and a cut on his lip.

"Can I have it back yet?"

Gil laughed and stuck his hand in the pockets of Ivan's coat. "I wonder what's in here?" Gil pulled out an empty candy wrapper. "Tch. Gross." He tossed it on the ground.

"Can I have it back now? Berdwald and Mathias stole my allowance this morning. There's nothing else in there."

Gil glanced down at Ivan. "Is that supposed to make me feel bad for you?" Nothing could make him feel worse than he did and he wasn't even sure what he felt and that only made him more upset.

"Please. I'm cold."

"Get on your knees and beg." Gil waved the jacket in front of Ivan. He laughed as it hit Ivan in the face.

Ivan shifted in the snow and put his head to Gil's feet. "P-please."

"Are you crying? You're pathetic." Gil tossed the jacket onto the frozen lake. "Go get your own jacket. You're getting snot on my shoes."

Ivan looked up at the lake. "I-I can't. Mama says I can't go on the ice."

Gil stared Ivan down with an expression of pure spite. "What are you crying about? Why don't you just run home to Mama?"

"M-mama's going to be mad." Ivan started crying even harder.

The wind nips at Gil's nose and cuts through the hardness in his face. "Tch. You're pathetic. You're Mom's not going to be mad because you lost your coat. I'll get it for you."

Ivan looked up at Gil as he started to slide across the ice. "W-what are you doing? It's dangerous."

Gil shuffled over to the jacket, which only lay a few feet from the bank of the lake. "Don't be such a pansy." Gil tossed the jacket onto the snow and laid down on the ice. "The ice is great." He rolled over onto his stomach and smiled at Ivan.

Ivan rubbed the tears from his eyes, then looked up at Gil. "It really is dangerous on the ice. Mama said so."

"Moms say lots of things." Gil's expression fell for a moment. "But that doesn't mean that everything they say is true." He traced circles on the cold, hard ice with a finger. "My mom used to lie all the time."

Ivan watched Gil and remembered when Mama told him, just a few days ago, be nice to Gilbert and Ludwig when they come back to school. Yes of course Gilbert too. Why? They lost their Mama. No honey, I'm not going anywhere. I'll be here forever. Ivan shivered. The cold fell through to his bones.

Gil looked over at Ivan. "Are you in love with me or something? Just take your coat and leave."

Ivan stood up and grabbed his coat. He put it on and wiped his nose with the back of his hand. "Thanks."

Gil glared at Ivan, then stood up and brushed off the powder of dirt and snow that collected along his legs. He looked up at Ivan. "Are you going to keep watching me?" Gil tilted his chin forward. "Go."

Ivan turned around, but stopped when he heard a loud crack. Gil was frozen over the ice, suspended mid-step. Gil looked down at his feet and saw a fracture in the ice. He watched it grow and before he knew it, he was in the water. It was cold. So cold. Breathe. He couldn't breathe. Everything hurt. Everything was cold. Breathe. It was too cold. He missed Mom.

* * *

"Gil?" Ivan says. "What's wrong?"

Gil traces the grout between the ceiling tiles with his eyes. Breathe. It's hot. He counts the tiles. One. Two. Three. Breathe. Four. Five. Six. Breathe. "I'm sorry."

Ivan furrows his brow. "Sorry?"

"I'm drowning." Gil's breathing quickens again.

"Gil, you're not drowning."

"I'm drowning."

"You're not drowning. You're in the hospital."

"You could've let me drown."

"Gil, slow down. You need to breathe."

"You hate me."

"I don't hate you."

"Why didn't you let me drown?" Gil turns his head and meets Ivan's gaze. He is dizzy. The edges of his vision darkens.

Ivan crouches down to Gil's eye level. "Because I wanted to keep you alive." Gil is hyperventilating now. "Can you count to ten with me?"

"No." Gil tries to catch his breath. "No." He can't breathe. "Fuck you."

Ivan pulls back, confused by Gil's reaction.

"Just leave," Gil says.

Ivan continues to watch him, unsure. Gil glares at Ivan and says, "Go." Ivan sighs and leaves.

* * *

It is 8:26 pm in mid-January. Gil lays in his hospital bed in a first floor patient room. He is reading an old copy of Catch-22. Ludwig sits on the cushioned window seat and studies for an upcoming module exam. Gil feels a headache return and shuts the book on the veneered bedside table. He pushes the table away and lets out a sigh as he leans his head back and counts the large white ceiling tiles.

Ludwig lowers his book and looks up at his brother. "Is everything okay?"

"Hmm?"

"I said, is everything okay?"

Gil watches as Ludwig balances the textbook and notes on his legs. "Don't you have something better to do? Like go to a library? Or get a beer with your friends? You do have more friends than Feli and that Asian kid, right?" He rubs his earlobe. Ludwig's voice sounds a bit strange, but so does his own voice. It sounds hollow and distant. Must be the headache. "You can't hang out here forever. They'll kick you out eventually."

"The visiting hours here are unrestricted." Ludwig straightens his reading glasses and looks back down at his notes.

"You'll catch meningitis too if you sit here all day."

"Pretty sure I won't."

Gil sighs again. "You know, there are far better places to spend your time. You act like I'm dying."

Ludwig pauses over his notes. His brows knit together. He looks up at Gil with an expression that seemed offended and hurt.

"Chill out Luddy. It's just a joke."

"It wasn't a very good one."

The fluorescent lights are harsh. Ludwig looks pale, tired. Gil's eyes widen in realization. Gil swallows and looks away. He shuffles through the get-well-soon gifts by his bed and picks up a round, yellow bird plush toy from the pile. He flaps its small wings with his thumbs. "How's Gilbird?"

"He's fine, but he misses you."

Gil hugs the plush against his chest and starts to look through the other gifts and cards. Ludwig returns to his studies. After a moment, Gil's headache starts to return. He stacks the cards together on his bed and place them back on the nightstand.

"Do you believe in karma?" Gil says.

"What?"

"Well, maybe I deserved this."

Ludwig looks up with a concerned expression on his face. "What are you talking about?"

"Never mind. It's nothing."

"You can't just say things like that and hope I won't notice."

"Notice what?" Gil laughs and tosses the bird plush up into the air.

"You know you can talk to me, right?"

Gil glances over at Ludwig, then returns his attention to the toy. "Do you think Gilbird likes it in his cage? Maybe he's not singing. Maybe he's screaming, get me outta here! Get me away from this freak!" Gil smiles and turns the plush to face Ludwig. He squeezes the sides of the yellow bird. The little orange beak slides forward and the eyes slide backward as its face deforms. "Looks like a peep, doesn't it?"

Ludwig remains silent as he watches his brother and wonders if Gil finally lost it.

Gil bounces the plush against his legs. "If I was Gilbird, I'd fly far away from here. I'd fly all the way back to the Canary Islands." He holds the toy up to his face. "Or actually, do you think he knows where the Canary Islands are? Or what they are?"

"Gilbert…"

Gil pauses and looks over at Ludwig. He smiles and says, "Not Gilbert, Gilbird." He tosses the bird at Ludwig. "Fly little bird. Fly."

Ludwig catches the plush and wonders why his brother still acts like a child at the age of 26 – or rather, 27 now. He makes a mental note to throw Gil a proper birthday party as he hands the toy back to Gil. Gil takes it back and rubs his thumb against the soft, velvet texture of the bird.

"Gilbird love you very much. He would never run away."

"He's a bird Luddy. He doesn't love me. He just likes me because I feed him." Gil glances at the stack of cards and gifts at his bed stand. He feels his expression slip, but catches it before it falls away completely.

Ludwig watches Gil's face. He presses his lips together and takes a deep breath.

"But as long as I keep feeding him, he'll stay by my side." Gil smiles at Ludwig.

Ludwig cocks his head to the side and wonders how often Gil has thought this. "That's not true. He just likes to be around you."

Gil looks back down at the toy in his hands, at the small, bright black eyes and the orange nub beak. "I'm tired, Luddy. You should head home now."

"I can stay longer if you'd like."

"No, it's fine." Gil places the toy back on the night stand and lays down in his bed. "You really should go home now." He smirks at Ludwig. "Seriously, you look like shit. Go home."

* * *

It is late January. Ludwig is sitting on a plastic chair in Gil's hospital room and Dr. Braginski is prepping Gil for discharge.

"Well, Gil, everything looks good, although I suggest you ease back into your daily routines. Give yourself about a week. There are several long-term effects, the most common of which is hearing loss, concentration problems –"

Gil stops listening as Ivan starts to drone. Instead, he's focused on strange hook in Ivan's nose and wonders if he knows how to pronounce Beilschmidt. He's trying to ignore the fact that the tenors in his voice sound muffled. He's trying to ignore the way everything sounds more muted than it should. He's trying to ignore the syllables that sounded oddly like "hearing loss."

"Excuse me. Did you hea–"

"It's actually pronounced _Bial-scmidt_."

"I'm sorry?"

"My last name. It's pronounced _Bail-scmidt_ , not _Biel-schmidt_." Gil emphasizes the pronunciation with an unusual amount of agitation. Ludwig looks up from his phone, confused.

"Oh. I'm sorry." Ivan looks confused as well, but shakes it off as one of Gil's eccentricities. "Anyways, you can make an appointment at the front desk for your hearing test."

Gil glares at Ivan. It is difficult, but he can still make sense of his words. "I can hear just fine."

"That's great, but—"

"Why do I need to make an appointment?"

"Beca—"

"We're talking right now aren't we? Clearly I can hear you."

Ludwig looks up from his phone and says, "Gil. It's protocol. Just schedule the test or I'll do it for you." Gil glares atLudwig, but doesn't respond. There is a glimpse of suspicion in Ludwig as he meet's Gil's gaze, but in that moment Gil's anger looks more like desperation and Ludwig feels the same desperation and he decides that to believe his brother's words. Ludwig walks up to the Ivan and says, "I'm sorry. I'll take care of the appointment."


	5. Good

**It's been over a month I am so sorry T^T I've been moving and I just got grad school and I joined** **a RP group and oml there's just so much going on right now.**

 **Hopefully, I'll be back on track again. Once again, I'm sorry! I realize these chapters are short and this one is extra short, but I'm trying my best.**

 **Anyways, I'm glad you guys are reading it! I really hope I can get around to longer chapters soon.**

 **Comments are always appreciated, so please let me know if there's anything you want to see or directions you want to go in. I can't guarantee anything, but I will always try to accommodate.**

* * *

Gil and Ludwig are sitting in the back of a taxi cab on their way home. There is a stifling silence that overwhelms the air. A low whirring from the engine mixes with the faint hum of a new Katy Perry song in the background. A rosary hangs from the rearview mirror and clicks against itself as the cab rolls through pitted streets. The silence is getting louder.

Ludwig sits upright in the cab. He glances over at Gil. His paleness is grey, desaturated. His figure is gaunt. Shadows fall against hollow cheekbones and tired, deep set eyes. His silence is thick and penetrating and seeps deep into Ludwig's bones. He shifts in his seat and glances down at the white discharge band around Gil's wrists. His bones protrude. He sits, slouched. His elbow rests against the thin shelf of the window and his chin rests against the heel of his palm. He stares out at the moving pavement. Ludwig wonders what he is thinking now. Ludwig wonders what he was thinking back at the hospital.

* * *

Gilbert had always been difficult. His parents were relieved when they watched him play music. Their father, especially, though not by any virtue of his talents. Rather, it was for the few moments in a day that they did not have to worry about a broken dish or chocolate syrup in the sock drawer or a pile of worms in the kitchen sink.

It was always automatic, like the time he put a raw egg in his father's pillowcase at the age of 9. What were you thinking? People would ask him, but the truth was that he simply wasn't thinking. He just saw the eggs when was helping Mom unload the groceries. Maybe he was angry. Maybe it was when he saw his father come home at 8 that evening from an open-heart surgery. When his Mom said, "I talked to Ludwig's teachers today. They said he's doing exceptionally well in his classes." Ludwig was sitting in the living room, watching Scooby Doo reruns. "They said he's already at a 5th grade reading level." Ludwig was 6. He was in 1st grade. "There's a special program for gifted students and they want to put him in it. He's just like you."

Maybe it was the way she drew out those last words as if they tasted sweet on her tongue.

Or maybe it was when his father gave his mother a kiss on the cheek and said, "That's amazing. I better go congratulate him." Maybe it was the way his father's hand grazed past Gil's back, but he forgot to ask him how his day was and instead, walked over to Ludwig.

Maybe it was when Gil heard them laughing together in the living room.

The fact of the matter was, their father never understood Gil. Why sometimes he would break things or forget things or ignore rules, and, if Gil was ever honest with himself, he would admit that he never understood himself either. Why he did the things he did – or rather, why he could never do the things he was supposed to do. Their father and Gil, they seemed to share only one understanding, and it was that Gil's only redeeming quality was his music, but at least he was good at music.

* * *

At least he was good at music.

The silence is screaming now. Ludwig cannot bear it any longer. "What was that about?" he asks.

Ludwig's voice sounds garbled. It catches Gil off guard and he glares at his brother. "What?"

"You know exactly what I'm talking about. Why did you—"

Gil figures the conversation was about the hospital. He didn't need to hear to read a facial expression after all. "Do you think my insurance will cover the additional tests?" He tells himself there is something wrong with Ludwig's voice. It's Ludwig's fault.

"I'm sure Dad can co–"

Gil catches the word, 'Dad.' "Did he even visit me?" Gil stops staring at Ludwig and spots a piece of newspaper, balled up in the seat pocket.

"Of course he visited you." Ludwig watches Gil smooth the page out in the loudest way possible. The taxi driver glances back at them and Ludwig exchanges an apologetic look with the man. Gil is clearly not listening. Ludwig, again, finds himself wondering if all of this is deliberate.

"I bet he did come to visit me. Of course he has to. He works there. He wouldn't have come if it were inconvenient, though." Gil is straining to hear all the sounds of the newspaper. "He wasn't here today." He can almost hear the sounds and it makes him angry. Ludwig's muffled voice makes him angry. It's Ludwig's fault.

"He's at a conference in Boston."

Gil stares at the newspaper. He doesn't respond immediately. It's partially because he's thinking about sound of crinkling newspaper. It's Ludwig's fault. "He would be here if you were sick."

Gil shoves the newspaper back into the pocket in front of him. Ludwig stares at Gil and in that moment Gil looks especially thin and frail and defeated and Ludwig feels guilty so he swallows his suspicions again. He wants to tell Gil that that wasn't true, that their father would have gone on the trip regardless, but somehow that feels worse and so this time, they both choose to remain silent.

When they get back, Gil says, "I'm tired." He walks to his room and slams to the door shut. He's not lying. He lays in the bed and strains to hear his brother, who is standing in the living room, dazed.

* * *

After Mom died, Ludwig and Gilbert quickly mastered the language of silences. There was their father's angry silence when he picked Gil up from detention for placing magic grow dinosaurs in the pool gutters. There was their father's apathetic silence after Gil drunkenly tried to bounce a watermelon off of the awning and broke it. There was their father's proud silence when Ludwig received his admissions letter from his former residency, the Feinberg School of Medicine at Northwestern. This last silence, Gil knew by heart.

* * *

Gilbert turns to his side. He is restless with heavy limbs. He is enveloped in white sheets. Freshly laundered. They smell of dryer sheets. Crisp. The sounds he misses. Grains of cotton rubbing against skin as he shifted. The soft crumble of down and microfiber. The constant grind of tires against pavement. The neighbor's grey terrier, yipping at squirrels that run up the sides of a thin sapling, which grows two feet from the fire escape.

He pulls the sheets over his head and shuts his eyes. It is dark now and he wishes it would stay this way. He doesn't want to admit to himself that he has lost anything.


	6. Silent Night

**T^T I haven't dropped this I swear! I'm still not sure how to balance everything yet and writing has definitely taken a back burner. Thanks so much for reading and leaving wonderful reviews though!**

* * *

Ludwig flinches at the sound of the door. He flinches at the silence that follows. It stretches through the room. Stark, tall and thin. It is a shadow at the brinks of dusk and dawn and even though he can hear the sounds of wheels and pavement and laughter below him on this beautiful day in January, everything seems stunningly dark in here.

* * *

After Mom died, Gil quickly mastered the language of silences. There was their father's angry silence when he picked Gil up from detention for placing magic grow dinosaurs in the pool gutters. There was their father's apathetic silence after Gil drunkenly tried to bounce a watermelon off of the awning and broke it. There was their father's proud silence when Ludwig received his admissions letter from his former residency, the Feinberg School of Medicine at Northwestern. This last silence, Gil knew by heart.

* * *

It's 1:27 am on Thursday morning. Gilbert sits on the ledge of the bay window. He holds a beer in one hand. It is cold. He rests his head against the glass. It is also cold. He watches the street below him. The roads look slick with frost. There were no cars tonight. He wonders if the neighbor's dog is barking tonight. He wonders if the city is quiet tonight.

He wonders if these nights were always this silent.

He takes another sip of his beer.

He is staring at rows of neatly cataloged sheet music. They line the tall black bookshelf adjacent to the piano. The bookshelf is brimming. It is full.

He is staring at his flute. He holds it in his hands. It is cold. His hands are shaking.

It's too quiet tonight.

His hands are shaking.

He puts the flute down.

He takes a sip of his beer. He is not drunk. His world is spinning. He sets his beer down. It does not taste good tonight. He sets his flute down. It's too quiet tonight.

* * *

It would have been easier if his father was angry. If he had continued to yell. If he had continued to ask, "What is wrong with you?" But it's not like Gil knew the answer to that question himself. It's not like he had a better answer then the slam of a door. It's not like he had a better answer than, "Because I'm a fuck up."

But at least he wasn't a complete fuck up. At least he was good at something. At least he and his father could agree on that.

* * *

Gil is staring at a pile of neatly torn sheet music. They litter the floor around the tall black bookshelf adjacent to the piano. The bookshelf is not brimming. It is empty. It is dim. It is still early morning.

He can't feel anything but his hands are still shaking. He tells himself this is all just a dream. He is not sure when the dream started. He walks back to his room and shuts his door. It is nearly 5 am when he goes to bed.

* * *

It's 3:13 pm on Thursday. Ludwig is sitting at the dining table. His notes and books litter around him. His laptop is in front of him. He sits on a cup of fresh coffee.

Gil walks into the room, surprised to see Ludwig. He looks around the living room. It is clean. He looks up at the bookshelf. It is still empty.

"You're home early. Don't you have class?" Gil asks. His own voice sounds more muffled than before.

"Yeah. I skipped my last two."

Gil's eyes widen. He walks closer to the table.

"It's just the second week of classes," Ludwig says.

Gil frowns as he watches Ludwig speak. He pulls a chair next to his brother. He is sitting just a little too close and staring a little too much. "You should be in class."

Ludwig shifts in his seat. This wasn't quite the reaction he expected, but then again, he didn't know what to expect from Gil after waking up to a mess of shredded musical scores. "I'm just worrie-"

Gil smiles as he grabs Ludwig's coffee cup from the table and takes a sip. "Of course, it's understandable that you missed the awesome me."

"Is everything okay?" Ludwig asks. "What happened last night?"

Gil scan's Ludwig's expression carefully, then turns away from him. He flips through a notebook in front of him. Ludwig's notes were always impeccable. Color coded. The pages are rigid from his brother's pen strokes. He wonders how crisp those pages must sound. "Who's playing at the symphony tomorrow?" His hearing is not worse. It will get better. "We should go together if there are still seats."

"What? Please don't change th—"

Gil grabs Ludwig's laptop and pulls it towards himself. He knocks a few papers onto the floor in the process. "You know what? I don't care if you're busy. We're going." He starts scrolling down the list of concerts at the Chicago Symphony Orchestra. "Brahms and Wagner are good and I'm sure even you know Mozart. Where do you want to sit?" He looks over at Ludwig, who is picking up the notes Gil knocked over. Before Ludwig can form another thought, Gil shoves the laptop back to its owner. "Actually, surprise me. It'll be you're treat."

Ludwig sighs as he takes his laptop back. He decides to drop the subject for now. He hadn't seen Gil this energetic in a while. "Fine," he says as he selects a rather expensive pair of floor seats.

Gil leans back in his seat and watches the computer screen carefully. "Nice." He smiles at Ludwig and says, "This is why your my favorite brother," Then gets up and walks back to his room with Ludwig's coffee.


End file.
